


Ghost

by arcadian_dream



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is the ghost at Arthur and Gwen's wedding feast - and it amazes Gwaine that he is the only one who can see it. Or, at least, he is the only one who will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost

  
Gwaine is amazed.

He is amazed that no one else sees it: the sadness in Merlin.

Merlin, who stands so close to Arthur and Gwen and yet seems so far away.

Merlin, whose brilliant blue eyes are dulled by the glassy shimmer of uncried tears.

Gwaine is amazed, because as he stands among his fellow knights, doused in the cheers and laughter of this joyous occasion there stands Merlin; and he is, Gwaine thinks, as a ghost.

*

It is hours.

It is hours that pass before Gwaine approaches Merlin. Many of the revered guests have retired to their rooms, exhausted by the festivities of Arthur's wedding feast; and the knights ... well, the knights have disappeared into the darkness with maids and mead in hand, their cheeks ruddy with intoxication, and their bellies full of the finest food in all of Camelot.

But, Gwaine thinks, he hasn't seen Merlin touch a drop of drink or taste a mouthful of the offered bounty.

Emptying his goblet, Gwaine places it down on the nearest table. He straightens his formal tunic and lopes, unsteady, to where Merlin stands (a ghost; he is a ghost).

"Merlin," Gwaine croaks, his voice thick; laden with his overindulgence. He clears his throat. "Merlin," he repeats, and places a hand on Merlin's shoulder. Tentative; tender. For a moment Gwaine thinks he will miss his mark; he thinks that his hand will pass through Merlin, as though he is not there.

He is relieved when it doesn't.

He is relieved when Merlin turns to face him. "Gwaine," he says. He twists his mouth into a smile, or tries to. But his eyes –

His eyes.

"How're you doing?" Gwaine asks. He gives Merlin's shoulder a squeeze.

"Fine," Merlin answers. "Fine."

Gwaine isn't convinced. He arches an eyebrow; dark, and interrogative.

" _Really,_ " Merlin says, "I'm fine, Gwaine." He reaches for Gwaine's hand and removes it from his shoulder.

"I've got some preparations to make," Merlin adds, glancing at Arthur and Gwen across the hall, before he leaves Gwaine to enjoy the last vestiges of the feast.

*

The steps, they are moving. Gwaine could swear it. They shift beneath his feet; they quiver, absorbing the weight and movement of Gwaine's gait.

At least, that is how it feels when Gwaine climbs the steps, his fingers clinging to the cold, stone walls for purchase; when he seeks out the familiarity of his chamber door.

That is how it feels when he sees Merlin.

That is how it feels when Gwaine sees Merlin's elongated shadow wavering against the lamp-lit walls.

That is how it feels when Gwaine finds him, leaning against the roughly-hewn timber door of Arthur's bedchamber, with his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling with deliberate rhythm of slow and steadied breaths.

 _"Merlin?"_

"Merlin?" Gwaine murmurs again as he stumbles onto the landing. His voice lacks certainty, clarity; it rings out loudly in the, the rolling syllables of Merlin's name reverberating through the corridor.

It draws his attention.

His eyes flick open and there it is again, Gwaine sees it: the blue and the sadness; the paradoxical dull and shimmer of it as Merlin stares at him.

"What're you doing?" Gwaine asks, straightening up as he approaches Merlin.

Merlin shrugs, and says nothing. He looks away, into the dim of the hall; into its shadows.

"Merlin?"

"Nothing," he says quietly.

"Nothing?"

Merlin nods his head, but still cannot bring himself to look at Gwaine, or to look anywhere but into the dark.

"Merlin –"

"What?"

Gwaine sighs. "I see it you know," he says in a whisper. He leans toward Merlin when he speaks, so that he and only he may hear, though for a moment Gwaine isn't sure that he has – and then he sees it (he sees, he does).

He sees Merlin swallow.

He sees the protracted undulation of his Adam's apple.

He sees Merlin's excruciating struggle to deny the feeling that is wrapping its long, gnarled fingers around his throat, around his chest, around his _heart_ , and choking him.

"Come on," Gwaine slurs softly, draping an arm across Merlin's shoulders. "Let's get you out of here."

*

Gwaine doesn't know what compels him to do it.

To pull Merlin close to him, tucking him under his arm, and brush his dry, cracked lips over Merlin's cheek.

He doesn't know what compels him to do it, but he does it again.

And when he does, he feels the scramble of Merlin's fingers against his tunic; the fleeting scratch of nails against his skin.

He feels the earnest warmth of Merlin's lips on his.

*

 _Clinging_ , that is the word for it; for the way Merlin is clutching at Gwaine's hips, at Gwaine's wrists, at Gwaine's jaw.

Clinging.

As though to relinquish, to _give_ , for the span of a moment, a _breath_ would be to concede some immeasurable loss.

It is desperate, it is eager, and it is more intoxicating than anything Gwaine has ever known; and as Gwaine kisses him (againagain _again_ ), wet and languorous and _full_ they fall to the floor; together.

Drunk, ghostly, and amazed.


End file.
